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He was gone.

  In truth the Executioner felt nothing for the fallen sentry. If the man was not a killer yet, it was by accident. He had aligned himself with the Assassin cult and served its master with his final act of twisted courage, praised him with his final breath. Whatever sudden nausea the soldier felt was brought on by the knowledge of the power that Sheikh al-Jebal commanded from his various disciples. They were ready to sacrifice themselves on his behalf, and that meant they were primed to slaughter others on command. The evidence from Orly, all the other strikes, was falling into place.

  "You are surprised?" There was a trace of condescension in the master's voice.

  "It's different," he conceded. "I assume your men have no more qualms about eliminating others?"

  "They will do as they are ordered by the voice of Allah."

  "I'll admit I'm curious. We've got our dedicated lads in Ulster, mind you — we proved that in H Block with the hunger strike — but what you've shown me here is something else. I wonder how you can command that kind of blind obedience."

  "Allah commands. I am the vessel."

  "Of course, I understand. But there must be some motivating factor."

  "They have seen the future. Each of my disciples has implicit faith in paradise, because they have already seen it for themselves."

  "Now that's some trick."

  "The members of our order are initiated in the garden of delights, an earthly recreation of the afterlife that Allah promises to all his loyal servants. Having sampled their reward, they have no fear of death in battle."

  "So I see. Your garden must be more than roses and petunias."

  "Would you care to see it for yourself?"

  The soldier shrugged. "Why not? I've always wondered what it's like in paradise, and this might be my only chance."

  * * *

  Hafez Kasm counted off five minutes in his mind before he tried the door. It had been left unlocked, but he delayed another moment, giving any watchers ample opportunity to show themselves. When he leaned out to scan the corridor, he found himself alone. He slipped out, immediately wishing that he had a weapon in case he met the grim Amal or one of his associates.

  They had been promised freedom, of a sort, but watchful guards were everywhere, and it would be a challenge for Kasm to move among them unobserved. But to what end? He had no firm objective in his mind, no destination, goal or object of desire. What was he looking for? How would he know when it was found?

  He chose the right-hand path, because he had not gone that way before and had no inkling of what might lie in that direction. If his calculations were correct — a dangerous assumption in the circumstances — then the corridor ran east to west, across the mountain's face. He would be moving in the general direction of the stables, and he wondered if there might be some connecting door, another means of exit from the castle.

  Thus far he had marked the single entrance, noted windows that would be of little use without a ladder, and he knew the castle was secure. If he should find another door, it would be guarded, would it not? Unless, perhaps, it was an entryway considered otherwise secure.

  Doors opened off the stony corridor on either side, but all were closed, and he was not inclined to test them. If there were vital secrets hidden in the rooms he passed, Kasm would have to seek them out another time. At this moment his mind was focused on the problem of escape, and intuition told him that he had no time to waste.

  The tall American might have a plan in mind, but if he did, Kasm had not been briefed on its details. He thought the soldier probably was faking it, as the Americans would say, or "playing it by ear." And if his supposition was correct, the end might come at any moment, their disguises penetrated by the Old Man of the Mountain or his grim attendant with the cobra's eyes. In that event their one chance in a million of survival would depend entirely on their access to an exit. If they had a way to slip out of the castle, they could…

  What? Steal horses from the stable, gallop to the gates and find them barred? Perhaps a magic carpet would be waiting for them, or a genie with three wishes who would spirit them across the fortress walls.

  He froze. A magic carpet might not be available, but he had seen the heliport and recognized its bottom-line significance. There had not been a helicopter on the pad when they arrived, but one might be there now or else expected soon. It might be waiting when they were compelled to flee the Eagle's Nest, a means of scaling walls and leaving the Assassins far behind.

  As quickly as the inspiration came into his mind, it withered. Was the tall American a pilot? If he could not fly, it made no difference what was sitting on the helipad; the Syrian knew nothing of the airship's handling, and they could never hope to find a willing pilot in the ranks of the Ismailis. This much he knew: the Old Man's followers would rather kill themselves en masse than help an enemy escape.

  Kasm shrugged off the morbid train of thought. He had not found the exit yet, much less a helicopter, and he had them dead already in his mind.

  Lighting in the corridor consisted of electric bulbs spaced twenty feet apart. Connecting cables ran along the ceiling, and he thought that with an insulated tool of some sort he could plunge the tunnel into darkness with a moment's effort. It was something to consider, possibly a means of slowing down pursuit, but would they not have flashlights? Lanterns?

  Never mind. It was enough that he had struck upon the vestige of a plan, the first step in the formulation of escape procedures. The pursuit would still continue, even with the tunnels cast in darkness, but at least the aim of marksmen would be ruined, and they would not be shot down so easily, like stray dogs on the public street. It was a start, and at the moment he was thankful for the inspiration.

  Moving on, he reached an intersecting corridor that ran — he thought — from north to south. A right-hand turn would take him toward the courtyard and escape… unless, of course, he was mistaken. If he chose the wrong direction, he would never find an exit from the halls of Alamut.

  Electing to continue with the corridor he recognized, Kasm took time to glance in each direction, satisfied that there were no sentries in the tunnels. He crossed the open space with hurried strides, aware that he was terribly exposed, a sitting target if he ran into a member of the killer cult. Was the Old Man sincere in stating that they were not prisoners, and had his troops been so informed? Were the Assassins all on notice that the strangers should not be molested? Or had one or two of them, perhaps, been overlooked when the instructions were relayed?

  He moved along the corridor, exaggerated strides designed to minimize the echo of his boot heels on the granite floor. Kasm glanced over his shoulder frequently, afraid of what he might discover creeping up behind him, conscious of the image his skulking progress would present to hostile eyes. He looked like what he was — a prowler, a spy on hostile ground.

  If interrupted, and assuming that he was not shot on sight, he planned to say that he was seeking the latrine, disoriented by the labyrinth of tunnels. It was thin, at best, but he was good at playing dumb, and there was still a chance that he might pull it off.

  Some twenty yards farther on, the tunnel terminated in a! heavy wooden door. From its location, he was certain that it offered access to the outside world, and he suppressed an urge to shout his joy out loud.

  He tried the handle cautiously and was surprised to feel it turn without a sound. He checked the corridor behind him one more time and tugged against the heavy door until it gave an inch, then two. The fragrance of manure struck his nostrils, and he heard the horses stamping in their stalls.

  The stable.

  He had been correct.

  Another fraction of an inch, and he could peer around the corner, scanning equine faces that regarded him impassively. He took a chance and poked his head out, drew it back immediately at the sight of stable hands, their naked backs turned momentarily, no more than fifteen feet away. Would they have sounded the alarm if they had seen him? He could see no point in taking chances. Kasm had found his e
xit from the fortress proper; testing it for usefulness would have to wait.

  He didn't have a watch, but knew instinctively that he had used up his allotted time. He didn't think Amal would check his room, but there was still no point in courting danger any more than absolutely necessary. For the moment, he had managed the impossible, and in his mind, he was already working on a plan: it might be possible to kill the lights in their corridor, proceeding swiftly through the darkness to the stable door, and from there, if they were not anticipated, trapped, they would have access to the courtyard, possibly the helipad.

  They would still be easy targets for the marksmen on the walls. They still might find no helicopter on the pad, and if there was one, they might have no way of lifting off. They might be dead before they cleared the stable's outer doors, their bodies riddled, so much useless garbage to be hauled away.

  He forced the bloody image out of mind and closed the door securely, moving back along the tunnel toward his suite. It was ironic, he decided, that the plush accommodations he had dreamed about since childhood proved to be a prison, possibly the chamber where he would be put to death. Perhaps, in spite of everything, he had been fortunate in poverty.

  He thought about his wife and children, waiting for him, unaware of where he was and what had brought him to that place. What would become of them if he did not return? There was the money he had hidden, saved through years of scrimping, for the day when Mara might be left alone. A letter, which she left unopened by agreement, would direct her to the cash, would provide her with names of contacts in the CIA who might agree to find her passage out of Syria. Each time he left their home "on business," without an explanation to the ones he loved, they had agreed upon a deadline for the letter to be opened. Thus far, he had always made it home in time…

  His suite revealed no evidence of prowlers having entered in his absence, and he stretched out on the bed, attempting to relax. His plan was weak. It needed work. And he would have to find a way to speak with the American, alone, communicate his findings so that they could synchronize their plans regarding possible escape.

  A little rest, and he would check the suite where Mike Belasko had been lodged. The soldier might be back from his excursion with the sheikh and his aide. If not he would have to wait and wonder how much time remained for staying in the dragon's lair.

  9

  "Are you aware of how we got our name?"

  "Ismailis?"

  They were back inside the castle proper, moving through an unfamiliar tunnel, bearing northwest.

  "There is another."

  "Ah."

  "In certain quarters, we are called Assassins. You must know this. Otherwise, you would not be here."

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps you also know the vulgarism is derived from yet another name: Hashshashin — users of hashish."

  "So I've heard."

  "You disapprove?"

  The soldier shrugged. "Your business. We've got our religious quirks in Ulster, too."

  Arrani shot a burning glance at Bolan, who responded with a mocking smile. He didn't trust the sheikh's aide de camp, and saw no point in trying to make friends where it was neither possible nor necessary.

  "Of course," the sheikh went on, "your war against the British. We will speak of that, in time. Hashish is more than a diversion for the members of our sect, however. It allows us to commune with Allah on a level unattained by other men of faith. It grants us insight, broadens our horizons."

  Bolan's host was sounding like a sixties-style guru, intent on selling flower power and the Church of the Expanding Mind. It almost seemed that he could yank the Old Man's turban off, remove his beard and find Timothy Leary hiding underneath. Except that the Ismailis had been practicing their lethal brand of mind-altering worship for the better part of a millennium.

  "I should imagine that it also helps you keep the troops in line," he offered, half expecting a reaction from the sheikh, receiving the expected grimace from Arrani.

  "So it does. A few of our disciples are impetuous, and most grow restless over time. Hashish has powers to calm them, and it also makes them more receptive to the word of Allah."

  "And the afterlife?"

  "Through careful study of the holy word, my ancestors created an approximation of paradise on Earth — a garden of delights. I have revived the custom. Warriors who are certain of their heavenly reward, and who have sampled it beforehand, fear no enemy in battle."

  "And hashish enhances their appreciation."

  "Certainly."

  The corridor was sloping downward, finally terminating at a heavy wooden door with armed Ismaili cultists standing guard. Before the sheikh had an opportunity to speak, the guards were on their knees. He left them there and turned to face the Executioner.

  "Beyond this door, the dreams and fantasies of every man are perfectly fulfilled. In normal practice, those selected for a mission are, how shall we say — sedated — and they wake to find themselves in Paradise. Of course, your entry to the garden is unorthodox, but I am confident you will be satisfied with the experience. If you would like a little hashish, first…"

  "No, thanks. I figure this could be my only look at Heaven, and I wouldn't want to miss a thing."

  "Of course."

  The master clapped his hands and brought the sentries to their feet. One stood at stiff attention while his comrade drew the door back, offering a wedge-shaped view of ferns and undergrowth beyond.

  "Enjoy."

  As Bolan stepped across the threshold, heard the heavy door swing shut behind him, he was struck immediately by the scent of flowers and the sound of running water. All around him trees and shrubs were brilliantly in bloom, the sweet aroma of their blossoms lying heavy on the air.

  He spent a moment scanning his surroundings. He was in a garden, true enough, its rampant flora cultivated on a terrace carved out of the mountainside. The trees obscured his view, but Bolan knew that it would be surrounded by protecting walls of stone. The usual visitors, already high on hashish and sedated for the trip, would scarcely notice, but he knew the Old Man of the Mountain would not leave his back door open to the world, with just a pair of sentries to secure it.

  On a whim, the soldier drifted to his left, along the cliff face that was overgrown with vines and creepers, following the sounds of flowing water. After several moments, he reached a point where sparkling water trickled from a fissure in the stone. A mountain spring, or some device prepared by men who built the Eagle's Nest in ages past? It scarcely mattered now; the presence of what seemed to be a never-ending water source would almost be enough itself to make a drugged-out desert cultist think that he had found Paradise.

  A pair of brightly colored birds were trilling at him from the treetops, but he heard another sound audible above the avian salute, above the constant rippling of the spring.

  The sound of voices. Laughter.

  Bolan moved as quietly as possible, covering nearly fifty yards before he reached the tree line, hesitating while he still had cover. Just ahead, the mountain stream spilled out into a basin which, if not man-made, had certainly been modified by human hands. The pit, which might have been a simple crater some time in the past, was smooth and oval, with sand and polished stones along its banks. It had become a swimming pool, of sorts, and it was occupied.

  There were two young women, and he wondered where the other dancers from the banquet hall were being kept this morning. Granted, two were plenty, and he spent a moment watching them as they cavorted in the water. Neither was wearing anything but sunshine and the beauty she was born with.

  Bolan recognized the dancer who had stared at him with such intensity the night before. Despite the fact that she had earlier been veiled — and clothed — he knew her instantly. Her eyes had been the giveaway, and there was no mistaking them.

  Bolan felt himself responding to the scene and the supple bodies of the forest nymphs. If he emerged from hiding, would he startle them? Or had they been instructed by the master
of the castle to expect a guest? Their presence here was clearly not an accident; rather, it smacked of a performance, carefully rehearsed and polished over time. And there could be no harm, then, in another player taking part.

  He stepped into the open and stood unnoticed by the! women. Finally the nearer of the two spotted him and gave a little gasp, retreating so that just her head and shoulders could be seen above the surface while she spoke rapidly to her friend in Arabic. The other seemed to take his entrance in stride, and Bolan thought the shy one must have been more startled than embarrassed, for a moment later she was on the bank, her body sleek and glistening.

  The other woman joined her, and they whispered for a moment. The dark-eyed dancer seemed to win the toss to serve as spokesperson. Stepping forward and making no attempt to hide herself from Bolan's gaze, she spoke to him directly, and despite the view, he found he had no problem concentrating on her deep, almost hypnotic eyes.

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

  "Then, you speak English?"

  "Yes."

  She had an accent, but he could not place it. Bolan thought the riddle's answer might have been important, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter.

  "My companion, Alia, does not speak your language, but if you have any questions, any needs, I will be pleased to serve as your interpreter."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "My name is Shari."

  "Pleased to meet you."

  Shari took his hand and led him toward the pool, and before he knew precisely what she had in mind, his caftan fell to the ground. The water in the pool came up to Bolan's waist, and it surprised him with its warmth. It did not have the normal bite of a mountain spring to it, and the soldier let himself relax a little as the woman joined him in the water, circling him slowly, counterclockwise, soft hands reaching out to stroke him.

  Within a moment, he was ready, eager, but the garden nymph wasn't prepared to hurry her performance. Her hands grew more demanding, more inquisitive, and Bolan fought the urge to close his eyes, surrender to the moment.